Of Texts and Concussions-John's POV
by TYRider
Summary: Third installment in the collab "Of Texts" series. To be read alongside Sherlock's POV written by Sherley Holmes. John's taken a bash to the head and things are a bit not good at 221b... Drama/friendship/humor. As always, no slash. Short but fun, reading order not important. Enjoy!


**A/N: Here is our third instalment in the "Of Texts" series. As always the wonderful Sherley Holmes (she's the Sherlock to my John) has written Sherlock's POV to this story. Go check her's out next if you haven't already. Reading order isn't important. Enjoy and read and review if you can! :D**

John slumped against… something, lids heavy, mind foggy. There was a buzzing in his head—wait. No, that was his phone. With his free arm he pulled out his phone.

_On my way to the flat. Need you to pay cab fare. - SH_

Lazy sod. Third time this week. John rubbed his temples and tried to rise and found he couldn't. Strange, that. Then he remembered—oh, right. He was handcuffed to the oven. Still a bit foggy he typed a reply. To his frustration uppercases were impossible to make one handed. Blast.

_a bit tied up. jw_

Tied up. Why was he tied up? John couldn't remember, his brain felt like it was filled with cotton and it ached. Ow. Why did ache? _Concussed. _His medical mind helpfully, if sluggishly, supplied. _Great. Just great._ He thought. He tried to stand again only to be pulled back down by the metal of handcuffs biting into his right wrist. Ow. Again. _Brain hurts. Just rest a bit._ He closed his eyes.

The buzzing was back. He decided he hated the buzzing.

_What's happened? - SH_

_Good question._ John was certain _something_ had happened but his mind refused to answer. _Think. Thinkthinkthink. Something happened. What happened? Not important now, I'm trying to think! What am I trying to think of?_ His mind wandered in circles. He happened to glance at the phone in his hand. _Oh._

_nnot ure. jw_

His fine motor skills were obviously lacking. Damn. What did happen? More brain wracking. More cotton. Phone forgotten he thinks, _Maybe Sherlock knows._

His hand was shaking. No, the phone in his hand was shaking—buzzing.

_At the flat? - SH_

_What about the flat? _He wondered absently. Then, _Where am I?_ He raised his lids. 221b Baker Street, London. In the kitchen. Handcuffed? To the oven? He should tell Sherlock where he was. _That's convenient._ He thought, looking at the phone.

_im at bakr st. jw_

His eyelids slid closed and his head sank on his chest and he dreamed of wooly jumpers and killer cabbies and blue scarves and Mycroft's bloody brolly.

_Anything else? Mrs. H? - SH_

_brolly. jw_

Wait. That didn't make sense. He was proud of himself for knowing that didn't make any sense. Small steps, right? He concentrated on Sherlock's last text. He obviously wanted something, but what? _Data. _He decided. He sent another text.

_mrs h out ov twn. jw_

John rubbed his face, he was able to focus his vision and his thoughts better. That was good. Mind was still a bit sticky, but it was at least trying to cooperate. Now, down to business, Doctor Watson. Assess the situation, decide on plan of action, carry out plan. Before he could get a proper start his phone buzzed.

_Mycroft? - SH_

Well, that was confusing.

_hmm? what about him? Jw_

John glanced around. The flat was trashed, he was handcuffed to the oven and obviously concussed, no assailants in sight—except… There. A pair of feet were poking out of the bathroom. John smiled, at least he'd gotten to one of them. The smile died on his lips, who exactly were "them"? He couldn't remember, didn't particularly matter at the moment. With a vague, but good enough understanding of his predicament John started on step two: the plan, which meant escape. Buzzing.

_The brolly. Thought it could be Mycroft. Anything else? - SH_

Brolly? Sherlock wasn't making any sense.

_Are you hurt? - SH_

Concern? Now John was wondering if he should be worrying about Sherlock.

_what about mycrofts bloody brolly? yes, im handcuffed to the oven and there's a man unconscious or dead in the bath room. i appear to be concussed. jw_

There wasn't much for him to do now, he concluded. Not much he _could _do while handcuffed to an oven. He waited for Sherlock's reply and wondered idly if the consulting detective was nearby. He hoped so.

_You mentioned the brolly, John. Do you have your gun? - SH_

_i did not. did i? hell. i cant remember. let me check. Jw_

He checked his person. Nope. No gun. Then he remembered he hadn't ever taken it out of its hiding spot today, which just happened to be the oven. He opened the oven cautiously. Praise the Lord for small miracles like living with an eccentric flatmate that made you do things like hide your gun in the oven. He was about to tell Sherlock when he got another text.

_You did. I'm almost there. - SH_

That was a bit disconcerting. He didn't want to think about it anymore so he ignored that text. At least Sherlock was coming.

_yes. ive got my gun. it was in the oven today. Jw_

He cradled the Browning in his lap. It was comforting. What was that? Definitely a noise. He twisted to look at the bathroom. _Crap._

_unconscious. he was definitely unconscious. now semiconscious. Jw_

To his growing horror the man rose to his feet. He took a deep breath, sat down the phone, another breath. The man had a rather nasty hunting knife that John didn't particularly like the look of. Deep breath, aim, fire, text.

_now dead. quite. dead. Jw_

John cringed, that was a new rug. Mrs. Hudson would not be pleased with the splatter on the wall either. Well, can't be helped now.

_Any others? Be there in five minutes. - SH_

Any others? Not that he could tell, but there was no way of knowing for sure. Sherlock was coming. Good. Very good. The calvary would soon arrive in all its swishy-coated glory. John smiled.

_don't know. hurry up. be careful. Jw_

John heard the door open and tensed. Quiet steps started up the stair and then paused. He took aim for the top of the stairs. John's phone buzzed and he lowered the gun just long enough to read the message.

_On the stairs. Try not to shoot me when I come in. - SH_

John cracked a wry smile as he sent his next text and promptly began to laugh. He berated himself for giggling, yet again, at a crime scene.

_no promises. Jw_

He hung onto the Browning—just in case—and waited for his friend to appear, giggling all the while. Sherlock appeared in the doorway and appeared relieved after glancing over John. He turned to the dead man and then back to John.

"Well, that wraps up my case quite nicely," Sherlock said, smiling. "All right, John?"

"Glad I could help." John replied, suppressing his giggles long enough to talk. "Yeah, I'm grand." He said flicking the safety back on. "I hope you nicked a set of cuff keys along with one of Lestrade's IDs."

Sherlock pulled out a set of lock picks with a flourish and a wolfish grin.

"Close enough." John said, grinning back.


End file.
